


Maglin Parade

by OdioEtAmo



Series: In The Aftermath and Companion Pieces [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Eventual Romance, M/M, WW2, genteel yet somewhat pathetic men, historical fiction - Freeform, just so you know there'll be sexy bits too, just some queers in a bookshop you know the drill, spinoff fic for In The Aftermath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27200363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OdioEtAmo/pseuds/OdioEtAmo
Summary: "Despite it all, he couldn’t help but miss a time when the world hadn’t seemed so big yet also so suffocatingly small."A series of exerpts from the lives of three men, intertwined.
Relationships: Harold Maglin & Jem Eller, Harold Maglin/Bert Slinglesby, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Series: In The Aftermath and Companion Pieces [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728412
Comments: 10
Kudos: 7





	1. Lover

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [In The Aftermath](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18774181) by [OdioEtAmo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OdioEtAmo/pseuds/OdioEtAmo). 



_September 1st, 1939_

Harold pulled the sheet from atop the chaise longue and proceeded to sneeze to an excessive degree as the dust ballooned out from it, as if a small explosion had detonated underneath the tarpaulin. He dropped the tarpaulin to the ground, moving his free hand to cover his face and made a valiant attempt to keep himself propped upright against his stick. When the dust had settled sufficiently on the floor and the chaise longue again, but mostly upon him, he sat down on the neglected little seat.

He had half wondered if it would bring back memories of some kind or another. If some long forgotten truths were hidden within its faded blue surface which would form clearly in his mind. Unfortunately the chaise longue was simply a chaise longue, and granted him nothing. He sat there for a little while longer, taking in his surroundings. They held a great uniformity, in that they were all dusty, and covered in a great deal of white sheeting. This Harold could blame nobody for, as it had been entirely of his own doing. He couldn’t imagine using the whole house, not with the size it was. He already felt a little like a marble rattling around in a doll’s house.

The door opened behind him, and a strong draft billowed into the room, followed promptly by a large man dressed in a valets uniform, adorned with a rather unique frilly apron and armed with a feather duster. All of this was to be expected, as he was Harold’s valet, and a very singular sort of man at that. He moved at a remarkable speed, which few expected from a man of his size, and did so with a singular air of purpose that gave most people the singular sense that they were in his way. Harold rarely took any notice of this, despite the fact that he was often very much in the man’s way. The man in question being named one Jeremiah Eller, or ‘Jem’ to friends, of which Harold was one. His hair, being one of the things people often found notable about Jem, was curly and incredibly blond- perhaps even (though he could not personally argue it) too blond, which in addition to his rather boyish, gentle features gave him an almost cherubic appearance despite the fact that he was fast approaching forty. That was, if you elected to ignore the large, conspicuous scar that bisected his forehead a little below his parting, and meandered down over a good portion of his face. A singular man, as Harold had said. Though it seemed increasingly that everybody was, these days.

“I thought I heard you come in. You closed up early today?” Jem asked, walking over to the window and pulling the curtains open in a great billowing of dust.

“Selby’s been vying for responsibility. I thought I’d let him close shop today, see how well he handles it.” Harold responded, before sneezing again. It was some portion of the truth, so he would allow himself to say just that and spare the deep fatigue that settled itself in his bones to keep private.

Jem made some sort of scornful noise, or perhaps it was just him trying to pry the window open.

“You just wait. By tomorrow morning the till will be empty and he’ll be halfway to Brussels.”

Harold scoffed. “Float being what it is, he’d be lucky to make Shenley.”

Jem gave an almighty heave and the window frame shot upwards, presumably becoming as strongly wedged open as it had been closed.

Ambling over, Jem slid his feather duster into a pocket of his apron and let his firm hands rest solidly atop Harold’s shoulders. Harold, being in so many ways a weak man, allowed this and let his head loll backwards, resting against Jem’s stomach.

“That’s as may be,” said Jem, “But you look tired.”

“Mmh.” Harold agreed, as simple comfort enveloped him. Jem’s thumbs stroked against the muscles of his neck, diminishing for a second the steady thrum of dull pain that inhabited it.

“It’s like that, is it?” Jem murmured to him softly. “We should get you upstairs then.”

Gently he raised Harold up to his feet, reaching down for the walking stick without letting Harold go, before placing it gently in Harold’s hand. Harold switched it over, grasping it firmly in his left, and offering his right to Jem so they might link arms.

This was something Harold had gotten better at, namely accepting help when he should. This was, as many people pointed out to him, a good thing. In his defense, it was simply very easy to resent needing that help, or that people might deign to offer it, or that they didn’t just mind their own damn business and leave him to go about his, but, he digressed. From Jem, he could accept it.  
Jem took him by the arm, and they walked together from the room and onto the landing, in all its faded 1880s glory. The wallpaper of this floor was a rather lovely blue, with tree branches and starlings applied delicately to it in white. It might have been something his mother had chosen, or else had pre-dated her time in the house. He preferred to think, however, that it had been her doing.

Together they began the long ascent up the central staircase, which climbed steadily upward ahead of them.

“You know what would really make life easier?” Jem wondered loudly. “A lift.”

Harold pursed his lips, feeling the decade-long argument spring up again.

“I much prefer just having the stairs.” He responded coldly. “There’s a sort of challenge to them, don’t you find? Very-” he searched for the word. “Invigorating.”

“Challenge indeed.” Jem snorted. “Someday they’ll challenge you too much and what happens then eh? I dread to think.”

“They do us both a world of good.” Harold insisted. “It’s good to be exerted, every so often.”

Like a five legged beast they continued to ascend the stairs, Harold trailing behind despite what he knew was Jem’s best attempt to support his weight short of just carrying him. Still, he would prevail. They reached the landing, and Jem allowed him a minute to rest without saying anything before they continued up the final set of stairs.

“Any thoughts on that thing I suggested to you last week?” Jem inquired, as they trundled upstairs once again.

“What thing?”

“Oh, you know. Selling the house and looking for somewhere a little more practical?”

Jem sighed as Harold frowned at him reflexively.

“I know you don’t like the idea, but think of the benefits, just for a second.” He locked eyes with Harold, earnest and open. “You know I can’t care for this whole place all alone and you can’t like seeing everything get shabby and dusty any more than I do. We could take some of the furnishings over to it, and selling this old place would keep the bookshop running for years, a decade even, maybe. Besides... “ His tone grew softer, more sympathetic. “If we’re honest I’m getting on a bit now. All this running up and down stairs isn’t as easy on me as it used to be.”

This last bit was a bare faced lie and Jem should have realised it wouldn’t have him fooled a minute, knowing from long experience that Jem could and did scale the stairs dozens of times a day with the spry ease of a mountain goat. Harold was yet to see it render him out of breath even once. Though, with the exception of this point, which could not more blatantly have been made to spare Harold’s own feelings, the points he made were entirely salient. For a little while, Harold considered.

“No.” He decided emphatically. “I think we’re fine here, actually.”

“Alright then.” Jem abated briefly before starting on a new tack. “Apartments. Convert the house, have neighbours renting. Good for the coffers, and we could keep the top floor to ourselves.”

“There’d be no privacy.” Harold responded. “And you know I don’t like collecting rent. Besides, people would probably expect it all done up in the latest styles and you know I don’t hold for any of these modern design ideals. I’m sure they’d be fine in one of those hideous new builds that keep springing up at the end of the Hampstead tube, but not here. Not in my house.”

“It’s the Northern line now, isn’t it? They changed it a while back.”

“So it is.” Harold nodded. “So it is.”

It was at this point they reached the top of the stairs, allowing Harold a happy egress from the conversation. He unlinked his arm from Jem’s, leaning instead upon his trusty stick and gave his companion a victorious smile.

“Do you think you’d mind cooking early? I’m thinking of an early night tonight.”

He patted Jem lightly on the shoulder.

“Of course. I’ll try to have it ready for 6?”

“Perfect.” Harold nodded, and Jem disappeared away into the little kitchen, leaving Harold alone in the comfortable embrace of his own abode. It was his home within home, with no white tarpaulins in sight. The familiar blue striped wallpaper was just a shade darker than the one downstairs, the wood left bare instead of painted, worn and homely floorboards bare underfoot. He took the door directly on his left, shuffling slowly over to the long settee and lowered himself down onto it, unlacing his shoes and setting them to the side. Jem bustled in briefly, laying down Harold’s house slippers and a cup of tea before him on the side table with the utmost care. Harold speculated that most men could only dream of having a wife look after them as well as Jem did, let alone with the high quality of loving bickering that he doled out by rote. As Harold was sure to inform his friends regularly, having Jem was better than having a lover in just about every way that mattered.

He did miss all the ways that didn’t matter though. God, so he did.

That ship had sailed many years ago and he was largely at peace with it. But as he sipped his tea he could not help but wish it was something stronger, the surroundings muskier and more unknown, his body not yet too frail to withstand passion. If he closed his eyes, it could be 1925 instead of an ominous ‘39, his skin could be hot and tingling, mind fuzzy and there could be lips against his. Maybe a mustache too, if he was lucky. He always had been fond of those.

Despite it all, he couldn’t help but miss a time when the world hadn’t seemed so big yet also so suffocatingly small.


	2. Tilting at Windmills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold receives an old friend in the bookshop.

_ 17th October, 1939 _

It was an irksome sort of day. The rain was tapping at the window, employees milled around the shop at random, giving the place a rather cluttered appearance between the lot of them. Harold had been making an attempt to read Swann’s Way, after their only customer of the morning, a rather ink-blotched schoolboy who appeared to have liberated himself from some fine institution of learning had snatched up a copy, pronouncing the style to be “exquisite, sir and the characterisation superb.” when asked if he liked it. This cheered Harold greatly, less so when the boy in question had whizzed out the door clutching the book in his hands as he made off down the street. 

Not to be outdone by some little shit in short trousers, he had decided to make an attempt upon the one remaining copy himself. So far the going was tough, though he could not blame the book for that. Upon rising in the morning, he had glanced at the calendar and with a sinking feeling had realised that it had now been six years since he last had sex. As such the day had to be given completely over to malaise and sexually frustrated truculence. This, though he tried, was non-negotiable.

It had barely passed twelve, he noted with great dissatisfaction, as his internal clock (adjusted to what time zone he could not say) suggested he was already half an hour into ‘stomp off and have a drink’ time. He looked over scowling as the little bell atop the front door sounded. 

His frown twisted a little into a more bemused form as his great friend Kurt stood at the door, giving him one of his more shark-like smiles. The bastard himself. It was about time too, he hadn’t appeared extant for at least a month now. He slammed a pudgy hand down on the shop’s counter, startling a few drifting employees out of their stupor, though it was entirely unnecessary as he knew full well he had Harold’s complete attention. 

Kurt was one of God’s rougher prototypes, and upon seeing exactly what the man got up to in his free time the Almighty was understood to have said “Oh sod it!” and put the whole project permanently on hold. As such, no further models had ever been made, leaving Kurt to wander the earth alone, maintaining a level of wanton excess that unerringly made Harold deeply jealous. 

He was a curious man to look at, prefacing, though not adequately signposting exactly what one ought to expect from the fellow. He unerringly wore black, interspersed occasionally with grey, despite the fact that he was neither in service nor (that Harold knew of), in mourning for anyone. He also kept his dark hair shaved down close to his skull, providing no distractions from his face, which Harold had once heard memorably called ‘too striking to be handsome’. On another man his features might simply have been attractive and left at that. Yet something about the way Kurt was put together made them just slightly wolfish, aggressively laid out, with a smile that could unnerve you if you looked at it wrong. The eyes were what gave him his brutish look, despite being undeniably his prettiest feature. They were intense, a dark gray, near black. For risk of sounding revoltingly romantic though, they seemed to glint and change with the light, betraying occasional traitorous hints of amber, perhaps even some blue sheen in there somewhere. 

He also happened to be German, a card-carrying communist (but psychologist by trade), and one of the most promiscuous homosexuals in London. With a repertoire like that, he was just the sort of person Harold could never manage to avoid, so it was really good luck that he didn’t want to.

“Harold.” He said loudly, as Harold gazed mutely at him, having been too busy pondering his coming to say hello. 

“Kurt!” Said Harold. “Hello.” 

“Come, get lunch with me. You’re not doing anything better.” Kurt said decisively, looking round at the bookshop, appearing largely unimpressed.

Harold glanced around, and decided that this was true. He gestured at one of his employees, entranced deeply by the shop’s most recent purchase, a slim yellow paperback entitled ‘Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats’. 

“Blennings,” Harold snapped his fingers, barely managing to catch the young man’s attention. “Would you like a spell on till?”

Blennings nodded. “Thank you, Mr Maglin.” He put the book down and set himself upright on his crutches, clumsily angling himself and maneuvering slowly to behind the desk where he sat down, adjusting himself til he was comfortable. 

“There you go, Blenny.” Said one of Harold’s other employees, putting the book Blennings had been reading on the cluttered desk before him. 

George ‘Blenny’ Blennings was one of Harold’s newest recruits, and had been acquired not long after the loss of his right leg following a rather nasty traffic accident. He was a quiet, cheerful sort, well liked by the rest of Harold’s boys, and fitted into the little place very well. Harold suspected he would make a truly great reader someday. Currently though, he was steadily making his way through the children’s section and Harold’s attempts to wean him off comics had been largely unsuccessful. 

Kurt meanwhile had acquired Harold’s coat and scarf from somewhere and Harold engaged briefly in the complex rigmarole of putting it on while keeping himself sufficiently balanced. Following his eventual success, Kurt put Harold’s scarf on him, brushed the hair back from his eyes and placed his hat securely on his head.

“Anything else?” Kurt asked.

Harold shook his head. “Ready to go.” He gave a little wave to his boys, two of whom waved back, the rest of whom seemed either to be reading or sleeping. Blennings gave him a little smile from behind the till. 

The door tinkled behind him, falling closed as he and Kurt emerged onto the street. The rain had abated for the moment, miraculously, and the two men maintained a moderate pace, Kurt leading him decisively away down the road, bound for a little cafe that they had frequented more or less since Harold had acquired the bookshop. Kurt steamed off ahead of him, having to stop several times to let Harold catch up. 

He was always strident, but somehow this was different. He hadn’t been around much lately, either, which also wasn’t uncommon- it was his prerogative to be busy, however that usually meant more in the way of less frequent visits, not total absence. 

“Is something up, Kurt?” He asked, watching Kurt run a hand against his shaven scalp, gazing distantly into the road. 

Kurt jolted a little, turning his head to fix Harold with his intense gaze. His expression changed between a smile and a rather queasy grimace and back at a rather alarming pace. 

“I’m in love, actually.” He admitted, giving Harold a deeply uncharacteristic sheepish grin. 

Kurt? In love? Harold’s mind spun through a myriad of possible reactions. The one that his brain settled on, and that emerged from his mouth first was unfortunately:

“Oh hell, really?” 

Harold grimaced at his over-honest concession, and patted Kurt on the shoulder. It then occurred to him that this too might have been a bad idea.

Kurt laughed. “Rich coming from you. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.”

Harold scoffed. “Jealous?” Almost, he thought, though that was private to himself. “I’m sure I’m very happy for you, but you surprise me. I had no idea you were in the market for that sort of thing. I’m sure the last time you told me a thing like that you were twenty-five and pining after that awful sailor boy of yours.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow in surprise. “That would’ve been it. You remember him?”

“Oh I remember, alright.” Harold said. He could have said a great deal else- indeed he had always had a lot to say on the subject, had anyone wanted to listen, but he found this in general to be a rare occurrence. “You deserved better, that’s all I’ll say.”

“Mmmm.” Kurt mused, deep in thought. “You know, he has a kid now.”

Harold’s brow furrowed, in confusion, and continued to furrow quite unmitigated. 

“Oh, now now- no!” He stopped in his tracks, catching Kurt’s leg with his stick not entirely unintentionally. “Tell me you’re joking.”

Kurt pushed the door to Purley’s open, which Harold noticed with distaste they had arrived at. Giving Kurt a poisonous look, he followed him in, and took his regular table by the window, where Kurt joined him.

He smiled politely to the little waitress as she handed them their menus, before turning the force of his glare back at Kurt.

“Listen,” Started Kurt.

“I will, but you should know this is a mistake. He broke your heart clean into pieces and did a runner right after, in case you’ve forgotten.” Harold pursed his lips, barely containing the anger contained behind them. 

“Shall I go?” Kurt asked, putting down his menu. “If you don’t care to hear me out.” 

“Kurt-” Harold said, frustration itching in his hands as Kurt got to his feet. “Please- stay.”

“I broke my own heart as much as he ever did mine, really.” Kurt insisted obstinately. Harold remembered a rather different version of events to that, but he held his tongue for Kurt’s sake. 

Distantly, through the windowpane starting to fleck once more with rain, Harold remembered the nights he had spent holding a man as he sobbed himself to sleep, unable to escape from the jagged edge of loneliness that had cut him through. For all that he smiled now, he must have known he was opening himself up to such vulnerability. That was his folly.

“Listen, Kurt, I‘m sorry. I know it’s nothing to do with me, I just worry. The fellow just doesn’t have a good track record, so far as I’m concerned. You must understand that.”

Kurt nodded, an implicit acceptance.

“And…” Harold added, aware like a passenger in a train steaming faster and faster that he might well be careening towards disaster. “Really, Kurt? A man with a child? Tell me he doesn’t have a wife.”

“She passed away two years ago.” Kurt responded stoically, his arms folded over the table. “Birth complications. He was good to her though, everybody said so, her sisters even. And Edie is a sweet little girl.”

“You’ve met them all?” Harold goggled at him. “Kurt, how deep does this go?”

“I’ve been staying with him this last month.” Kurt admitted. “He used to write, often-”

“He felt guilty then?” Harold interjected, only to be silenced with a warning glance.

“As I was saying. I bumped into him just as he was back from the sea, and he looked so happy to see me, so I let him buy me a drink for old times sake. Who knows why but he invited me- he has this sweet little cottage on the coast- his sisters in law live there too and they look after Edie when he’s at sea, and- well anyway, the point is, he’s a good man, and I- I really enjoyed staying there with them all. Nothing happened between us, it was just as friends, but-”

“But?” 

“He had to come up to London to visit the Admiralty Board, so he’s here this week before he’s back to Plymouth and shipping out again for service. So I said he could stay with me, so he did.”

“And you’re thinking you want to renew things with him, before he goes off to war?” Harold asked slowly, ignoring the distasteful feeling his mouth had taken on.

Kurt nodded. 

“You’re not convinced, are you?” He asked rather dourly. “I should’ve guessed.”

“Oh come on, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“Oh... you know…” Harold started weakly.

“I don’t.”

Harold frowned, and wished Kurt wasn’t so very practiced at arguing with him.

“Well, it’s just-” He started, breaking off uncomfortably. “Well I always thought it was rather good that you didn’t want love like that in your life. It’s the queer’s burden to wind up alone, after all. Far better to live without needing someone around like that.” 

Harold’s heart bled a little to admit it but there. The point was made. 

“Oh Harold.” Said Kurt, a little more of his accent slipping through than usual. “You can’t be thinking like that.”

“It’s good to be a realist sometimes. Idealism being what it is today.”

Kurt sighed deeply, gently brushing a hand against Harold’s over the table. “You know what your problem is, Harold? You’ve let yourself get too drawn into your own mind. Have some optimism, you’re not done for yet. Anything could happen.”

“Well what the hell do I have to be optimistic about?” He adjusted his glasses so that he could frown at Kurt over them. “We’re at bloody war again, I haven’t had sex in six years and the district line no longer goes to southend. This is the absolute pits and you know it.”

Kurt started, giving him a truly indescribable look over the salt shaker. It made Harold’s neck burn red. 

“We’re both out of sorts today then.” He commented without judgement and a long silence hung over them, one that was not disturbed by the bustle of the little cafe and its clamour of chequered tablecloths. 

He lent in slowly, and Harold felt a leg slide neatly up the inside of his leg under the table. 

“I can help you with one of those things, if you’re needing it.”

Harold blushed even harder at the little bits that had slipped into his outburst. Good lord, was it really that bad? ‘Is it really that bad?’ he mouthed to himself. Then he caught a little glimpse of Kurt’s mouth twitching up at the edge, and was consumed by how deeply absurd the whole bally situation was. Then they were both laughing, the tension hissing out each of them like steam.

“I’d like to see you explain  _ that _ to your man. ‘I’m sorry my love but he did look so forlorn, you see.’” 

“Please! He knows what sort of man I am, Harold.” He raised a shameless eyebrow, still overtaken by their fit of mirth.

“Oh, he does? Good luck to him then, the poor sod.”

Kurt kicked him under the table. Yet he was still laughing, so it was okay, all in all. Or it was for now, and really, that was close enough. So God help the stubborn men of London. It seemed that was the only quarter they’d accept help from.


	3. O Captain, my Captain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold does a little light trespassing...

_September 31st, 1940_

It was smoke and sulphur, and the mottled light drifting past his face that finally woke him. Harold sat bolt upright, panting, and found that instead of cold he was encircled in musty warmth. His arms shook, holding him up, body trembling as he gasped for air, short, short bursts. Something was wrong with his foot, he could not move it, not for the pain that shot through it. And a sound rang out above it all, a resonant little melody, he knew it, he knew it from somewhere. It was from somewhere else.

And it struck.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

He was somewhere else. He was not here. He reached out his right hand, scrabbling around in the dark, and grasped his glasses, picking them up and knocking over the glass of water he kept on his nightstand. For he was at home, and the striking clock was his. He slid the glasses over his eyes and continued to fumble about, looking for the switch to his bedside lamp, which seemed reasonably placed when you could see it but disappeared off the face of the earth when it was dark in the room.

With an unhappy rattle the blessed thing almost joined his water on the floor. To his relief it decided against this dramatic end and settled, flickering on to illuminate his little room. Though he knew where he was, it relieved him that the world came into focus, the blurs retreating along with the night.

Harold was not very good at dreaming, as he felt was patently obvious. He did dream. But when he did his dreams were indistinct, fractured. He supposed he wasn’t wearing his glasses at night which might have explained it, but nonetheless didn’t. Nor did it explain why tonight’s dream had been so unpleasant.

His room was a comfortable one, almost like it had been designed to serve as a complete little world of its own, if need be. This was because it had been. It had an armchair in the corner, a stout little table beside it, a second door which led to the bathroom, a radiator that never saw use, and a large bookshelf. The benefit of being on the third floor was that it was always warm enough for him, even in winter. Very necessary as he chilled easily. It was so reliably warm in fact that he could sleep with the window open every night, and let his thin, pointless curtains blow in the breeze.

With the beginning of the war however the choice put to him had been heavy blackout curtains or a layer of paint. Being appropriately horrified by the idea of slopping black paint willy nilly over his windows, he had opted for the curtain. A necessary evil, so he thought. But it meant that by the early morning the temperature had risen to insupportable levels and he would need to leave the windows open all day to cool off.

Harold shuffled his body to the edge of the bed, more noticeably feeble than usual with the night’s tremors still wracking him. The leg still pained him, though god knows there was little enough to be done about it, so he would simply will it to hold him. Fingers crossed. Grabbing ahold of his stick from the side of his bed, he slid his feet down into his house slippers, finding with dismay that they already had something in, which was water. Letting the offending slipper fall from his foot, he made his escape attempt, lurching forward, the stick taking the brunt of his weight. To his relief he stayed upright.

Disgruntled by the feeling of his wet feet on the carpet he decided to make himself scarce. He’d move to another room, preferably a cooler one, and read something distracting and unworthy until the sun rose and he could forget about the whole rotten business.

He wandered out into the corridor, leaving the door open so that some dim light followed him out into the corridor. He was headed in the direction of the living room, but noticed as he glanced around that the door to Jem’s room hung ajar. Jem had his duties as an air raid warden at night. He must have left in a hurry, Harold reasoned. That was the only reason he could think of that the room had been left like that, having been kept reliably locked- off limits to Harold- ever since Jem had taken up the position as his valet. To be honest he barely remembered what the room looked like and- well- hmm.

He knew he shouldn’t look in. He also knew that he just had to. And a little look? Surely it could not hurt.

He stepped through the threshold, flicking the light on inside. A feeling of guilt washed over him noticing how sparse the room was. How small. Realistically, he had had some idea of the proportions, but inside it felt cramped, uncomfortable. Most of the room was taken up by a large shelving unit which housed a great variety of things from spare cooking utensils to- was that? A frog- a live frog? In a tank? Harold tapped on the glass and the little thing hopped. Good grief. It was alive. Alive and he had never known about it til now. He waved at the frog, in a gesture of good will. The frog looked rather peeved- it seemed not to like people tapping his house. Understandable, Harold thought and resolved not to do it again. Still reeling from this massive revelation he backed away from the frog to look at the rest of the room, at the single bed pushed up against the wall and the odiously ugly modern wardrobe that was sure he had never willingly permitted entry into his house. He was not sure how well he would sleep, the knowledge of its fearful proximity now clearly stamped into his mind.

That was it really, with the exception of a collection of photos that occupied each wall. Harold was increasingly aware of how flagrantly he was intruding, but he did itch to see them. There was not one corner of his life that Jem did not see into, after all. So he looked. There were a few unframed ones sat upon his shelf which upon further inspection were actually french postcards. Old-ish ones now, from the twenties if Harold were to guess. They had a delightful predictability to them, women exposing rather tantalising (he assumed) glimpses of their stockings as they were held by adoring men. Harold surprised himself by finding them rather charming. He hadn’t expected Jem’s taste in such things to be so quaint.

The rest were all on the wall above Jem’s bed. There were a few landscapes, one containing a rather grand looking country house, another a little rocky riverbank bordered by sycamore trees. There were people, most of them he did not know. A gaggle of maids dressed for service, a rather stern, stout older woman who he assumed to be Jem’s grandmother. There was a photo of the two of them that somebody had taken on Harold’s fortieth. It was a little blurry and Harold had not wanted it but was rather touched that Jem had it up on his wall. One of a wedding, Jem at the side, and Harold could have sworn he had met the bride at some time or another. Then over at the left, another that he didn’t know, older looking and rather more battered than the rest, with a dog-eared corner.  
The photo was of a group of men in military garb. Wait, that was not quite it. It set in as he looked closer- they were fresh faced little lads, no more than 18 any of them. They smiled at the camera, with the exception of a few more quieted expressions. And almost in the middle of them, just to the right of the centre, one stood out. Among all the faces, this one, it twinged recognition.

He was young like the rest, but tall already, taller than the captain he was stood next to, his hat skewed slightly to reveal messy blonde hair. He knew that smirk. That was Jem’s, and usually reserved for when he beat Harold at chess (on occasion) or was right about something (regularly). Harold could not help it, he reached out, running a finger against the youth’s face, apologising silently for the mark it made on the glass. So very young.

Harold heard footsteps echo in the corridor outside and he jolted up, too late, as Jem came through the open door. He stopped, dead in his tracks to look at Harold, caught in the act.

Harold opened his mouth as if to explain, and then realised he had no explanation. They looked at each other in a blank silence, Jem grimy in his Air Raid Warden’s uniform, his helmet dangling from his hand. Harold in his old, grey-chequered pyjamas.

Turning from Harold, Jem placed his helmet on a coat hook by the wall. Harold swallowed down a lump of shame in his throat, waiting for chastisement he deserved completely.

“Did the bombs wake you?” Jem asked, his breath raspier than Harold was used to.

“No.” He admitted, guilt racing hot through his veins. Truth be told, he’d heard nothing.

“I woke myself. Bad dreams.”

“It must have brought them on, then.” Jem allowed. He walked heavily over and sat down on his bed, unlacing his shoes and wiping the dusty reside from his hands onto his uniform. Harold watched him, even more uneasy for the excuse Jem was allowing him.

“I’m not so sure.” He responded, unwilling to be let off so easily. “I don’t remember anything that sounded so clear. More thundering and howling and… sulphur.”

He trailed off, the unsettling experience reasserting itself in his mind. It made him shudder, just slightly. Jem’s eyes flicked up at him.

“Do you think…” Jem stopped himself, regarding Harold with ponderous uncertainty. “Mustard gas? Could it have been that?”

“I-” Harold stopped. Oh, he didn’t know anything. “I wouldn’t know. There wasn’t any more to it than that.”

He paused. “Jem- I shouldn’t have come in here. It’s not my place, I know and-”

Jem waved his hand and Harold fell silent.

“I’ll forgive you.” He murmured. “Just this once.”

A hint of a smile glimmered past his lips and he shuffled over, closer to where Harold stood.

“Don’t we look young there, eh?” Jem’s eyes, distant, seemed to light up just a bit.

Harold blinked, confused, and glanced back over to the photo of them together, which Jem was not looking at.

“Us?”

“There.”

Jem guided Harold’s hand back to the photo of the boys, pressing his fingertip down just between the young Jem and his Captain, stood just a little to the side. He wore a placid expression, with just a hint of amusement playing across his delicate, rather pleasing features. Harold stared at the young man, searching for some spark of recognition. But no kindred image formed in his head and he found that the man’s gaze made him feel rather uncomfortable.

“That’s me...” He said. He could not doubt it, but nor did it feel right.

“Yes, that’s you. Who else would it be?” Jem looked up, frowning. “Of course it’s you, Harold, you know that.”

“I do.” Harold agreed weakly.

He did know, just as Jem said, had been told it plenty of times. He just hadn’t been thinking, that was all. If Jem had not pointed it out, he would not have thought of it.

“It’s strange to think we were so young there. Like you said.”

This seemed to appease Jem, who nodded. A spell of tranquility seemed to form over him, something about the photo so entrancing that Harold found himself looking from one to the other.

“You took us out to town that day.” Jem smiled fondly at the photo. “All the new boys. Made everything feel very normal somehow. I even bought myself a new pen.“

Jem leaned over, so that his head rested on Harold’s side, and Harold ran a hand through his hair, which the helmet had glued to his forehead. It gave him something to look at but the photograph. He was grateful.

“You should take tomorrow off, Jemmy.” Harold spoke softly. “Catch up on some sleep. I’ll manage just fine on my own and when I get back from the shop we can do a jigsaw together or something.”

“I can work just fine, don’t you go worrying about that.” Jem responded.

Harold sighed. He had forgotten that the laws of things declared that at least one of them had to be obstinate.

“Let me do this for you, alright? I’ll manage just fine and you’ll feel better for some rest.”

“I-”

“Don’t argue.” He ruffled Jem’s hair affectionately and under his hand Jem yielded.

Pulling himself away, Harold straightened up. Tempting as it was to stay like this, he knew that every minute he stayed cut into the time Jem could spend sleeping.

“Goodnight, Jem.” He said, and heard the responding ‘Goodnight.’ as he walked out into the corridor. Reaching his own door, he glanced back at Jem in his small room. As Harold watched, Jem began unbuttoning his shirt, exposing the flesh beneath it, mottled across with patches of raised pink skin. He looked up, eyes meeting Harold’s across the distance and gave him a little half smile. Then he pushed the door closed and Harold saw no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this one wasn't up to standard- my mind's been a bit foggy of late and I'll probably come back and rework this at some point but for now- hope you enjoyed.


	4. Jem's Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As titled! Jem has a morning and engages in some light flights of fancy.

_November 4th, 1940_

Jem was a simple man. He took great pleasure in achievable tasks, attempted to keep up to date with all the latest ideas and was only prone to occasional flights of fancy.

Right now, he was frying eggs.

The oil in the pan hissed angrily at him but he continued resolutely. He always fried eggs on Wednesday. Tuesday was porridge, and Monday a boiled egg and toastie soldiers, which was Harold's favourite, but it was a very dangerous thing to have one's favourite breakfast every day, and so Jem lovingly restricted his access to it. Jem on the other hand was secure in his own iron will, and as such allowed his favourite breakfast, bread and jam, to be served on both Thursday and Sunday. A man had to take his liberties somewhere.

Of course, Harold never finished his breakfast, nor any other meal of the day for that matter, which was not because the food was bad, because it wasn't. It was lovely. This was merely the way he was. It was a dreadful shame, really, but what was Jem to do? Fry half an egg? Serve him a thimbleful of porridge? Never. Besides, what if Harold was hungry that morning? What if he woke up full of alacrity and proceeded to demolish a whole bowl of porridge? Or more, even? It would not do to undercater and he abhorred the idea. As such, he always resolved to cook what he regarded as a reasonable amount of breakfast for two people. After they had finished eating- they ate together at Harold's personal insistence- the task fell to him to finish whatever had been left uneaten. It had been pointed out that it might perhaps be the result of this that he had grown quite stout over the years. Of course this would be Harold's fault, but he would not blame him too harshly for it. It was the role of a gentleman to remain unaware of the damage he caused after all. To rebuke that would be to call to question so many great institutions of his country and where would that leave everyone then? George the fourth himself had invented the gentleman in his time, and it seemed highly possible that, while dead, he would not appreciate the reproach.

Jem emerged from his musing and found that he really oughtn't keep frying these eggs any longer.

He swiftly removed the frying pan from the heat, poking one of the yolks delicately with a spatula and realising with great disdain that the yolks were not quite as runny as he should care for them to be. Harold, who never commented on the runniness of his egg, or lack thereof, would not mind. Jem however, held himself to standards. Standards which had to be maintained. In normal circumstances, he would have been obliged to remove the offending eggs from contention and start anew, however with the new food shortages this was likely to be frowned upon.

They would just have to do. So help him.

He removed the toast from their rather antiquated sweetheart toaster, checking that it was evenly done on both sides. Then he buttered the toast and plated it all up, so that the toast and the egg should come out even. But something was missing from this equation. The most important part by far. Harold.

Jem sighed, and placed a silver serving lid over the dish.

Where could he be, eh?

At seven-thirty by rote he had gone into Harold's room, put his morning tea on the nightstand and laid out his brown suit for the day. Rather tatty but he would not be parted from them- oh how Jem had tried. Then he would open the heavy curtains and open the window, which usually woke him in a rather relaxed, pleasant manner if he wasn't already awake. If this did not work Jem would usually dust something, which he could do in quite an intrusive manner and almost always did the trick. If not, he simply pressed a hand lightly against Harold's shoulder and shook.

He had done so this morning, and was greeted by Harold's drowsy assurance that he would be up in just a minute.

Jem opened the door just a sliver in case Harold was changing. There were no secrets between the two of them, no sights left unseen after all this time but Harold liked his privacy. He peered tentatively through. The room lay dim before Jem's eyes. He pushed the door gently open noiselessly- Jem took great pains about oiling the hinges- and peered through. And there the essence of the matter lay. Harold had merely turned over and gone back to sleep.

Jem sat down on the side of his bed. For risk of sounding soppy, he was fond of the man. He was a decent enough employer, that much was true- he paid a respectable wage, did not throw so many parties and could usually be relied upon to make sensible decisions. This did not call for excessive adulation. He was also prodigiously hard work at times, being among a variety of things prone to illness and greatly resentful of any efforts to nurse him. He was also very particular in his tastes, and the sort of person who took good food for granted.

There were better employers to be had in the world for sure.

Ones who would not drive him up the wall with persistent stubbornness or a strong personal inclination towards self-torture. There were men who paid higher wages, or who let their valets rule them completely. Luckily for Harold no such thing would ever tempt Jem away. Not that they weren’t tempting but really they had anything to do with the reason Jem worked for him.

Quite simply, Jem loved the man.

And it was not in that way, not the way that his friends joked when they thought he wasn’t listening. He had no inclination for men, he could solemnly report. If he had, he rather fancied he would have noticed it by now. He spent a good portion of his time around homosexuals- namel Harold, but also the large body of queers and miscreants that made up Harold’s larger acquaintance. There was one that he had fancied he could appreciate the looks of, some years ago, but it was undeniable that upon reflection the fellow looked strikingly like a woman. Life, it seemed to him, could have been far simpler if he had been a queer. At least he’d have a simple explanation.

He actually loved Harold in a rather different way.

At first it had been simple- Harold was a man looking after a boy who had gone to war too early. Someone who looked upon him with a friendly eye, and when he forgot to salute would gently remind him rather than punishing him as he ought. That had been where his love first took hold, as boyish admiration, and though it could never have survived as the cornerstone of their relationship, perhaps it still flickered there, deep beneath the surface.

It was a complicated surface now. Whatever held Jem to him was a complicated morass of feelings and thoughts. He owed Harold a life debt to name just one. He had seen him at his most vulnerable too, ravaged by infirmity and alone, proudly refusing help. Jem could not stand to live in a world where a man who should have been championed as a hero (in his opinion at least) could have been so neglected. But like most good men his ethical sense was malleable and at times extremely convenient. His guilt would have been gotten over and forgotten in time if he hadn’t really liked him. But try as he might, though he might shirk his morals he could not shake Harold.

When he took up a post as valet to his oldest hero, he had thought Harold to be beyond reproach. It had dismayed him greatly to learn that this wasn’t the case- that Harold could snap and criticise and be miserable like a person might. He’d contemplated giving his notice frequently, prevented only by guilt at leaving a man so ill as he had been then. It felt like penance for his idealism, watching over him doggedly each night in case he should slip through to the next world unnoticed. But over time he had seen his own error. Not even heroism precluded a man from human deficiency. If you insisted on looking closely you would see the unsightly details that were invisible when you gazed through stained glass.

Over time the hints of gold had disappeared from his hair, replaced with grey, and deep furrows had woven their way into his brow. His body warped and shifted, becoming more and more lop sided as Jem watched him rely on his cane more to get around. He had adopted a more grumpy, fastidious appearance to suit himself as he grew older, and that smile of his, that perfect smile became harder to find, preserved in a case for all the appointed dates. But it was not such a great difference. If you liked the sort of man he had been before, you could like this Harold too. He still sold books for far less than he should, still fretted terribly about whether or not he was as conscientious as he thought he should be, and still took a little detour every sunday morning to feed the ducks. He still needed tenderness, and somebody to hold him, even if it wasn't in him to ask for it. Then in the quiet moments when nothing could be expected of him, he would exceed himself and his ferocious altruism would burst through unbidden.

So Jem loved him in his way.

Even if he did think it was only reasonable to get his hair cut once every six months.

Harold stirred in bed, his eyes flickering blearily open.

"Hello, Jem." He said softly, yawning. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, wiping one with the back of his hand. "You're looming."

Jem smiled to himself.

"I thought I might cut off your beautiful locks with my pruning shears, dear Goldilocks."

Harold screwed his eyes together, frowning.

"Shut up." He mumbled. "It doesn't need cutting yet."

"You may think that, but can it stop me? The pruning shears call to you."

Harold gave him a filthy look and rolled over, curling up into a little ball beneath his blanket. Jem placed a hand upon his shoulder, one of the few bits of him that were exposed to the air.

"If you're so tired maybe you should take a lie in. I can open the shop today."

This caught Harold's attention, and his delicate face emerged from under the covers, looking back at him. His thoughts were easily read if you knew what to look for. His deep-seated hatred of being helped had been appealed to. At times like this Jem had the strangest urge to place him upon his lap and surround his gentle body with his arms.

"No no, I'll be up in just a second." Came his response. Ever predictable.

Jem raised a caring eyebrow at him, just so he knew he could change his mind.

"You're sure?"

Harold nodded. "I promised Blennings I'd go with him to the hospital when he's being fitted for his prosthetic. Can't miss it."

Now that was more like him.

"Well do hurry up about it, your breakfast's getting cold."

Harold yawned and pushed himself upright. He was a slight man, slightly dwarfed by his own pyjamas. He suspected they'd been too large even when he bought them, though he might have shrunk a little since. Perhaps he’d been dried at too high a heat. He was inclined to a particular appearance of thinness that encouraged some notion of fragility, which Jem personally thought Harold himself was overly susceptible to. Either way, he was a deeply challenging man to feed up, and if anyone could tell you that with authority it was Jem.

"I'll be along in just a second." Harold nodded, and satisfied, Jem got up to leave. Anything that he could let Harold do on his own, he did.

"Don't bother to dress for breakfast." He called back down the corridor, smirking at Harold's sardonic 'yes dear'. It felt like a good morning. Jem could see the day unfold before him. After Harold went off to work, he'd ensure everything was tidy, make up Harold's bed again, and then air out one of the downstairs rooms. Today might be a good day to do the dining hall, he speculated. Then afterwards he'd have lunch, take a walk in the park in the hopes of bumping into old Mrs Mears and her poodle, spend a delighted half hour listening to whatever gossip she had to share. He might pop on the tube and see Harold at the bookshop if no more pressing tasks came to his attention, and come home in time to set dinner in motion.

That should keep him happy until night came, and his patrol began. It wasn't a life that many men would have chosen, taking care of someone like this. But that was fine by him. He was simple at heart, after all.


	5. The Crushings Ward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold accompanies Blennings to the hospital for his appointment.

_ November 3rd, 1940 _

By the time he’d arrived at the bookshop it was already open. He passed a mother with two sticky looking children on his way in, and noticed the copy of Wigs on the Green under her arm. He approved of her choice almost as much as he disapproved of the stickiness of her progeny. He’d be sad to see the book go, of course, but there was little enough he could do about it now. Other than having a stern word with his employees about selling his stock, that was. He chuckled to himself privately as he hobbled up the front step. That was not the point of course- there was something terrifically sad about hoarding books away where they collected dust and people could not read them. He liked selling books, and he liked seeing people read them more than anything. He simply wished he could screen customers based on how likely they were to stick to the books.

Outside, the world had not yet had the time to get gloomy just yet, and despite its Novemberish chill, was a bright sort of day. When he stepped through the door, the change was atmospheric, the interior almost devoid of sunlight, the effect of the new panels he’d had to have installed over the windows to meet the blackout regulations. They looked far less odious and did none of the damage that just blacking the windows out would have but it did make his lovely little shop feel different inside and he still wasn’t quite used to it. He longed for the day where they could be taken off and the sun would shine through his windows while he sat at the front desk. It was the little things, after all.

“Morning, Mr Maglin!” 

Blennings waved at him from behind the desk. He looked chipper, not unduly nervous about the coming day, which was good. It would never do to be nervous about these medical matters. It would not serve you well at all. 

“Good morning, Blennings.” Harold said in return, hoping that a smile would make up for his tired eyes. Fatigue was grasping at his ankles today, but that did not mean he would let it get the better of him. “All ready for your appointment?” 

“It shouldn’t be unpleasant, I think.” Blennings said nonchalantly, tilting his head to the side. “They’ll tell me how tall I’ve gotten too, so there’s that to look forward to.”

“High hopes then?” Harold said, and allowed himself just a little smirk at his own pun.

“Oh, certainly! I’m not keen on staying 5’6 any longer than I have to.” Blennings said, allowing himself a little laugh under his breath. “It’s at 12:15, does that still work for you?”

12:15? Harold glanced at the clock concernedly. He had wasted too much time this morning, faffing about and sleeping in too long. Really, he let himself get away with far too much. 

“Of course, but we’ve cut it a bit fine.” He said, thumb worrying at the handle of his cane. 

“No we haven’t.” Said Blenny resolutely, before pausing to look very confused. “...have we? It’s just in Charing Cross.” 

“They moved their staff out of Charing Cross Hospital when the Blitz started.” Harold frowned at him. “The letter you showed me said that they’d moved your appointment to Hammersmith hospital.”

“Oh.” Said Blennings, face paling slightly. “I guess we’d better get to Hammersmith then.” He rose from the desk, struggling unsteadily into his coat. 

“No no, we’ll head to East Acton. The hospital isn’t actually  _ in Hammersmith,  _ you know. That’d be far too simple.” Harold gestured at Adams who was lurking in the corner, holding a folded paper flower. “Fetch Clayton and Arno from upstairs would you? They’re needed front of house.”

Adams nodded and darted away upstairs. 

“Alright?” Harold asked Blennings, now fully coated up. 

He nodded. “I’m ready.”

Their journey was thankfully a fairly uninterrupted one, taking the Bakerloo line up to Oxford Circus before changing onto the Central which took them to East Acton with more minutes to spare than he had initially hoped- it seemed his estimates had been a little overly cautious, which was lucky because they more than made up for it by walking the rest of the way to the hospital so slowly. It stood before them, red brick and massive. Making their way through the front courtyard past a large and rather ugly statue they entered a high, white tiled entry hall, bustling with doctors and visitors alike. 

They made their way together to the front desk where a rather harried looking woman in deep burgundy lipstick held sway. She did not look up as they approached the counter together and asked for directions.

"Prosthetics? Floor three, take that staircase on the right up one floor, take two lefts and then the staircase at the end of the corridor. You'll see the help desk just across from you. Talk to them." She said, barely stopping to take a breath before picking up the phone again. Harold patted Blennings on the shoulder, who grimaced at the news. Neither of them were handling the walk particularly well, but Harold was used to this. Blennings on the other hand was really struggling, the false leg that he had outgrown causing him to lean rather heavily as he walked on it, even with the crutch. Harold had hoped that they would get a chance to sit down once they got into the hospital. Still, they made their stalwart ascent through the building, following the receptionists directions to a tee, so far as Harold could tell. It was a bit of a warren if he was honest. They emerged onto the third floor, drained yet not defeated, and Harold was relieved to see he had not steered them wrong- there was the desk right there. He was right in the middle of a little hum of self-satisfaction when he realised that the desk was really quite empty. 

He walked over to it, peering over the counter to ensure that he hadn't simply missed someone. No, definitely empty. He rang the bell, waited for a moment, only for nobody to appear. Rather irate he rang it again, rather more severely this time. Around them a veritable flood of doctors and nurses passed in each direction, parting like a river around the two men.

Blennings looked rather grey faced.

"We're a bit late. Do you think they'll still have me?"

"They-" Harold bit his tongue. They could wait for Blennings all damn day and serve them right, putting the Prosthetics department so many floors up. "I'm sure you'll be seen. You will if I have anything to do with it." 

Blennings cringed a little under his caring gaze all the same. 

"I've been waiting six months for this appointment." He admitted, and could not quite manage to look confident. "If I have to wait much longer I think I'll just have to give up trying to walk without the crutch." 

Harold grasped him gently about his free arm. 

"I won't see that happen, I promise." He said gently, meeting Blennings' eyes. He hoped that the young man could believe in it. Truly, he didn't know how he'd make it work just yet but he would. "Now, we can find our way there by ourselves." 

Indeed, there was a sign listing off the departments on the floor just to the right of the empty desk. Harold peered up at it. A wall of text continued up the wall just about as far as he could see. None of the departments it indicated seemed like it was the one they were looking for. He glanced back to the empty help desk, and then at Blennings, who was doing a very poor job of looking confident.

Not outdone yet he flagged down one of the passing doctors- one who looked a little less harried than the rest. He looked very young, very blonde, and somewhat less sleep deprived than half of the steady back and forth flow of medical professionals. 

“Excuse me doctor, could you tell us where the prosthetics department is? We’re a bit lost.” 

The young doctor looked from him to Blennings and smoothed down his slick blond hair with a hand. 

“I’m sorry, I wouldn’t know any better than you. I’m on loan from UCH to help with the change over.” He shrugged at them apologetically. "You're sure it was on this floor?"

"That's what the receptionist said." Blennings piped up, taking Harold by surprise a little. "Honestly though I don't know. We've spent an age looking for it, and my appointment was meant to be now. I'd hate to miss it."

The two young men made eye contact, and Harold felt rather proud of young Blennings. He was handling himself very well given the stress.

"I'm sure that won't do." The young doctor gave them both a charming smile, though it was very clearly more for Blennings' benefit than Harold's. He waved over another doctor who gave them all a rather tired look, but joined them just the same. 

"What is it Button, I don't have much time." He said, words tripping out of him at a rather astonishing pace.

"Where's Prosthetics, do you know?" 

"Prosthetics?" The second doctor looked at them like they were all mad. "Ground floor, in the temporary annex. Close by crushings."

"Thanks, Tadd." Said the first doctor, and his companion hurried away. He turned back to the two of them. "Not third floor it seems."

Blennings gave him a strained smile and closed his mouth tightly. Seeing this, Harold took the initiative.

"Well, thank you for your help, we'd best be going." He amended, giving the doctor a polite smile. "If we're lucky we might still be seen." 

The doctor gave a furtive look around. Clearly thinking upon something. Harold liked when people had that sort of look about them. It meant ideas, and those were things he approved of almost unilaterally. 

"Well now, I'm sure I can do a little more for you than that." The doctor caught Blennings eye, which had been once again trailing around his feet in dismay. "Come with me." 

He led them down the corridor to their right, then through a door which looked like it did not usually admit visitors. Through it, the decor changed, older wood panelling patchworked with labels and notices spanned the walls and just there, a little birdcage elevator. The doctor pulled back the mesh front, allowing them both to enter. 

He pressed a finger to his lips. 

"Our little secret." He said to Blennings who grinned back at him unabashed as he stepped inside the lift. "Ground floor, take the door out and then a right and you'll see a door into the courtyard. From there you can't miss it." 

"My saviour." Responded Blennings, and Harold turned the handle on the lift, allowing it to dip slowly out of sight as the young doctor turned heel and strode away. 

Luckily for them, it was as the doctor had said. The way into the courtyard was easy and then it was a straight shot into the rather sparse temporary buildings of the new annex.

Though the prosthetics team had been rather irked by the untimeliness, it was quickly made apparent to them- through some stern yet not unfriendly instigation by Harold- that Blennings was not at fault, and they were hurried through a ward named crushings, by a rather loud nurse who busied herself in deep conversation with Blennings as he limped along behind her. Harold remained with them, seeing no need to interrupt. His part in this was done after all. One of the lads in bed- a little slip of a boy, watched him as he passed by, the tap of his stick echoing with his footsteps on the floor. He smiled at the lad under his apprehensive gaze. He supposed he must look like a rather grim reminder of the future to the poor lad, and if so, should be extra careful to look in good cheer. 

He gripped his cane tighter as the nurse increased her scorching pace. The thing was not that he could not walk without it- he often could but it was difficult, painful, and he had adopted a rather nasty habit of lurching. He also reckoned that if anyone tried to mug him he could hit them with it, which would probably be rather thrilling until he passed out from the excitement of it or something equally ignoble in order to balance out his impressive deed. Such was life, as he could be relied upon to say.

The point remained however, that despite his infirmity and his old leg injury, he had it easy. Compared to Blennings, compared to any one of the poor folk in here he had it very easy indeed. There was no painful rehabilitation for him to go through, and yet he was taken care of better than any single individual here. It didn’t feel good, he reflected, as he was sat down in the waiting room for prosthetics, flanked by the dismal phantoms of other waiting patients who were yet to be called upon. Not when every worker in the hospital was so run off their feet that they didn’t know where half the departments were. But what could he do, eh? 

He sat at his seat, the ache seeping up through his legs. Not for the first time, he wished he did not need his cane. That he could come and go as he pleased, and so that he did not need helping. For once, he would like to be the one who helped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to Dr Edward Button for appearing entirely unannounced in this chapter. He was a special surprise for our own brilliant beefmaster! So I hope I've written him right.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! The next chapter is almost finished too ;) im on a roll!


	6. The Prussian Officer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's book club night at the shop.

_ November 7th, 1940 _

Harold watched as the last customer left the shop, and exchanged a look with Archie Finch, who flew toward the door, key in hand, locking it before any more customers could find their way in. 

“Busy one today.” Finch commented tersely. 

“Yes.” Harold agreed. It had been an inordinately busy day in the bookshop. He wondered if it was the beginning of the Christmas rush. He sincerely hoped it wasn’t. The words ‘book’ and ‘rush’ simply did not go together. 

On Thursdays they stayed open late, but Harold always let the lads off early. Finch had been with the shop since ‘29, and liked the quiet shifts. He was an unplaceable man, with deeply tanned skin that seemed to stretch over his face too tight and was covered in blurry tattoos which he concealed beneath long sleeved shirts even in summer. In this respect they were alike, but only since Harold felt the cold rather keenly. 

Harold was quite fond of Finch really. Neither of them knew the slightest thing about each other, nor did they speak about anything about work, but Harold was glad to have his company nonetheless. 

He checked the clock on the wall. Half past eight, it said. Harold sighed a sad little sigh to himself. There was a reason they stayed open late on thursdays. It was not because demand was great (not usually at least) nor was it for the sake of his workforce. No indeed. No, today, as with every Thursday going back many years now, Harold held a book club. It was not publicly advertised, though some people did invite new people along. Primarily though, it had been for Harold’s friends. 

It had been nine weeks since their last meeting now. Well, that wasn’t completely true. Harold had attended all but one, though to him, it did not really count. Now that did make him sound- and feel- rather pathetic but really there was a lot to it. There was a war on, of course. Many of his friends who were still fighting age were off somewhere serving, or busy in their civilian roles. A good number of them were volatile or unpredictable, and might reappear at any point. It was not that he was completely friendless. There had just been some attrition to their numbers over the years. 

Harold left Finch to cash up, and fetched himself a cup of tea from the staff room, and tasked himself with the delicate job of transporting himself, and it, down to the little basement room where his book club was held. The basement was crammed with more books than any of the other floors, and was also where all the best books were kept. He passed through his ‘antiquity’ selection, eyes flickering over the selection with great fondness. They were a suggestion to what lay beyond, down the step, in his little paradise. It was curtained off to give it a distant feeling, though it did actually have a door too. He stepped through, pushing the delicate purple cloth out of the way. The ceiling was high enough in here that you could stand without stooping but just barely, and around the room he had arrayed comfy little sofas and seats. 

There was a standard lamp in the corner which created a gentle halogen glow when paired with the ceiling lamp, and off on the right hand side, there was a man.

Oh?

So there was.

He was facing away from Harold, who was quite sure he had never seen the man enter the shop, and he had barely been off front desk since lunch. The man’s hair was pure blond, perhaps even white in the light, looking quite intently at the photograph which hung off the wall. The photo was Harold’s and he had put it there. Despite this, Harold did not recognise him.

He cleared his throat loudly.

“Excuse me.” He announced. “I’m afraid we’re closed.”

The man made no motion in response, which rather unnerved Harold, as this seemed like just the sort of pretence that an unsettling campfire story might have.

He was however, too old and too respectable to let a notion so deeply silly get the better of him. He walked over to where the man stood, coming to stand just a little away from him, for that was customer service. You did not startle them too much, and you stayed at arm’s length. Even so, Harold gripped his cane a little tighter.

“The shop is closed.” He said again. “You’ll have to make your way out now.” 

The man turned to look at him and Harold got a good look at his face for the first time. Even in the low light, his face was distinctively pale. He wore large spectacles with a patch under them, concealing his left eye. His features were soft, and his coat looked eminently practical, if poorly cared for and a little too large. 

“I am sorry.” He said pleasantly. “I lost track of the time.” 

His voice was rather melodic, though just slightly accented in a way he could not place, and Harold realised he found it rather pleasing on the ear. 

Harold nodded, a little less disposed to be curt. 

“I understand.” He agreed, almost allowing the man a smile. “It’s easy to lose yourself down here, I do it all the time.” 

  
  


The man smiled at him, and gave no sign of moving. Harold was starting to think he might be slightly odd. It was all very well but Harold had a mind not to talk to any more customers today and this was rather infringing upon that, nice as the man might be. 

He was preparing to start herding the man from the room when he spoke again.

“You own the bookshop?” 

Harold hesitated, once again thrown a little off. 

“Yes, I am.” He admitted, and wondered why he felt so strange. “I’ve run this shop for fifteen years.” 

The man’s smile broadened, and Harold was treated to a view of his perfectly symmetrical, shiny white teeth. 

“I hoped I would meet you.” He said, and looked like he genuinely meant it. “Harold?” 

“Harold Maglin, yes.” He offered the man his hand, and he took it, exchanging a handshake. The man’s hands were soft and cold, with a surprisingly firm grip. “And you would be...?” 

“Tanawat Krungthep. Boo to my friends.” Retracting his hand, he fished about in his pocket, retrieving a pristine white business card which he offered to Harold.

Harold held the card up, closer to the light so he could look at it properly. Under a tasteful black embellishment it read ‘T. Krungthep, Mortician’ and gave an address and phone number. 

“Good to keep on you if you plan on dying anytime soon.” Mr Krungthep (Boo? Had he meant that Harold should call him that?) said with what Harold sincerely hoped was humour. 

“Not if I can help it.” Harold said wryly, and Mr Krungthep laughed. Harold had decided that this was how he would refer to him. He was not comfortable designating himself the man’s friend just yet.

“No, quite right. It’s not a good time for it.” He said, and once again Harold could not be quite sure how serious he was. 

“Quite, quite.” He agreed, without really knowing why. “Now I don’t mean to be rude but-” He tried to think of something nicer to say than ‘why are you here’. “Why are you here?”

“I came for the book club.” Mr Krungthep said, reasonably. “A friend invited me.” He seemed to withdraw a little, as the words came from him, eye no longer on Harold but on the hazy space beside him. “Mal Jones.”

“Oh.” Harold breathed. All of a sudden he felt very foolish for his mistrust. What else would he have been here for, after all? What sort of man would hang around this room of all places after hours? Why else would he seem so interested in Harold’s old photo? He decided for sure that the fellow was simply one of the odd sort, just like everyone who spent time around Harold, and not some vengeful spirit. Harold would not be found the next morning mysteriously dead with the door locked from the inside. 

Boo indeed. Suddenly it all felt deeply ironic.

He peered over Boo’s shoulder at the picture mounted on the wall. It was one of the oldest ones he kept in the room, capturing a glimpse of Harold’s little book club the year it had started. He stood on the right, thin and unhealthy looking but with some confidence left in him. He was sitting with friends in this very room, and there, a few people away, that was Mal. He remembered the man, for what it was worth. They had known each other from early days; when Harold’s life was fuggy and indistinct. The war had taken its own toll on Mal, who wore his disfigurements under a pristine ceramic relief and who had resented it every day. He had been a deeply difficult man to like, reclusive, aggressive and standoffish, but Harold had managed to like him anyway. He had stopped turning up to book club some years ago, and Harold had not mourned his disappearance greatly, but he had wondered.

“You know him?” Harold probed.

“A little.” Came the answer, straightforward and simple. “He was a friend.”

Perhaps too straightforward, Harold thought on reflection. Mal had never made great efforts to find other queers, much less to direct them to Harold, but perhaps he had changed in recent years. In all the time they’d known each other, he had never seen Mal take anyone home with him. He elected to be careful then, with what he let slip.

“That’s the first I’ve heard of him in years.” Harold smiled at Boo, who wore the same distant expression. “You’re in touch with him then? How has he been?”

Boo pulled his face into a tight smile, which looked immediately rather tragic and then let go of the endeavour altogether, wearing a look of rather distant malaise. 

“He passed away a little while ago.” He said. 

“Oh.” Harold said. There wasn’t much more he could think to say. He watched as Boo hovered there, still entranced by the photograph, and a great wave of sympathy for the little man flooded through him. If Mal had sent him here- he could hardly speculate, but they must have known each other well. 

“I’m very sorry to hear that.” Harold said gently. It was only the truth. “He was a good man.”

Boo looked up at him with barely concealed surprise.

“You thought so?” He asked, lip quirking upward, just slightly. “Not many people did. But I’m glad.” 

Harold did not really know what to say to that. It was all very complicated after all, and he suspected that a lot of the time where bereavement was concerned it was simply better to let others say what they wanted to say. It was odd for him to think that Mal was dead. Perhaps it was because he had not seen him for so long but the image of him in Harold's head was as yet so alive, sitting somewhere in the little reading room, scowling through a discussion on Wodehouse. 

He'd have time to grieve, and he would, but right now it was not his grief. So he waited for Boo to speak but he did not.

"You can take that with you, if you want." Harold offered. "I'm sure I could find something else to go there." 

"No, it should stay here. It belongs here, with the book club." He finally turned away, greeting Harold with his full attention again. The grief in his expression slipped under a mask and then Harold could not see it, and he looked once again pleasant and serene. "It is on tonight, isn’t it?" 

"Oh, erm? Of course." Harold glanced around at the conspicuously empty room once more. Nobody else had appeared in it and it occurred to him that by now Finch had probably closed up upstairs. "We, uh, we're not overly busy at the moment what with the war so if you'd still like to do it, it'd just be us."

"If you don't mind." Boo nodded. "I have been excited for it." 

"Oh really?" Harold could not conceal how much it cheered him. "A big reader, are you?"

"Not at all!" Boo gave him a mischievous look, biting his lip. "I am dreadful. But I thought I should not let that stop me."

"Quite right." Harold nodded. Despite everything he found he was rather enjoying himself tonight. There was life in the old book club yet. "I'd thought about setting a bit of Whitman for us this week, but I think I might do better setting us off with something a little more digestible since it's just me and you." 

"No." 

Boo turned around, searching through the shelves, selecting a volume in faded mint green. He offered it to Harold, who turned it over in his hands, peering at it through his spectacles. The Prussian Officer, by D.H. Lawrence. It took him back, just for a minute. He no longer saw his cosy little reading room, but a dingy kitchen with cracks that ran behind the sink. A party for rather singular men. Where he had stood in a corner, mutely listening to a sharp-voiced young Welshman rant. He had forlornly made eye contact with a tall blond regimental still in uniform, wishing that he would come and pull him away from the dour conversation. But the regimental had not and before the party was over Harold had had a thick, water-damaged volume pressed into his hands, only for the young man to flee the scene completely. Harold had not seen him after that for two years, and it wasn't until then that he had known the man's name. That was the first time he had met Mal Jones. 

Harold met Boo's eyes, just for a second, and they found a moment there. Not romantically, not quite that, though up close he was really quite pretty. But there was something that they both knew about each other. He knew, just a little, who he was talking to, and he wanted to know more on top. It was a book about desire.

"What is it you do in a book club?" Boo asked, and if he was conscious of how close they were to each other, he did not seem to acknowledge it. 

"Well, we talk about the last book we've read together, we drink and we chat." Depending on who was in attendance, there was also a variable level of flirtation, though Harold had not put it on the agenda. 

"We are the only ones." Boo pointed out, a pithy insight on his part, Harold thought. It certainly seemed rather pointed, and pointed in a direction Harold would like to follow.

"That we are." Harold said roguishly, and felt a hint of his old colour return to his own face. "So. What's your drink of choice?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope! You! Enjoyed! (this is compulsory)


	7. Re-convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet up again with an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note this chapter does, indeed, have sexy bits. If you don't like em they aren't long. If you do like em, enjoy!!!

_ 8th December, 1940 _

Harold awoke to the sound of thudding in the corridor outside his room and Jem cursing loudly. He sat up in his bed. 

“Jem?” He called out, concerned. 

“Stubbed my flipping toe!” Jem responded in the very embrace of agony. “Someone keeps ringing the doorbell and when I get my hands on them I’ll-”

“I’ll wait up for you. See if it’s anything important.” Harold responded before Jem could get any more colourful. He switched his bedside light on and put on his glasses, glancing at the clock. It was almost quarter past four, which was a time that Harold never directly wished to be woken at, but clearly this was beyond his control. 

“It won’t be anything. Go back to sleep.” Jem instructed him irritably. 

Harold did not wish to argue with him. He also did not want to do as he was told however, so he simply waited til he heard the sound of Jem thundering down the staircase, before heaving himself out of bed, picking up his cane, thinking to wait for Jem in the sitting room. Actually, he made a brief departure from this trajectory to put the kettle on the stove and boil some water, a culinary feat that even he could aspire to. He rather fancied a cup of tea, and perhaps half a biscuit to go with it. They had one of those sophisticated new gas ovens now, and while Jem had a great deal to say about it, Harold fancied they were both rather in awe. The freedom to make tea at any time night or day was a revolutionary one. 

He was so deeply caught up in making his tea that when he heard footsteps coming upstairs it quite surprised him. Jem appeared at the kitchen door, and Harold was surprised not to be reproached for his late night tea activities. Instead, Jem just stood there stiffly. He looked troubled. 

“How much water is there?” He asked.

“I made enough for both of us.” Harold replied, turning away from him to concentrate on pouring the boiling water into the teapot. 

“I’ll take it through.” Jem indicated, gently inserting himself into the teamaking situation in a way Harold could not possibly argue with. “Go and talk to Kurt, he’s here for you.” 

Harold nodded, and wandered back out into the corridor. This was, he concluded drowsily, rather unexpected. What a life he had chosen for himself. One where anyone might ignore him entirely for- how long had it been now? Yes, seven months at the least- and yet turn up on his doorstep unannounced at nigh on five in the morning. He wondered how a man could be expected to handle such excitement. 

The lamplight barely seemed to penetrate the living room, dull through and through. Kurt was sat on the sofa, facing away from him. Harold knew it was silly but it annoyed him somewhat. Was it too much to ask that his houseguests at least remain standing til he greeted them? Did the niceties that upheld society mean so little that they could be ignored with impunity, not to say at this hour of the morning too? 

“Hello, Kurt.” He said, lightly, approaching the sofa. “Nice of you to drop in like this.”

“I’m sorry for the hour.” Kurt said, voice dry and scratchy. His eyes rose, following Harold as he made the exodus over to the other side of the sofa. Harold eased himself down into it gently, and yawned. He was still very tired, after all. 

“I should hope so.” Said Harold, perhaps a tad grumpily. 

Kurt nodded. He leaned heavily upon the armrest, as if he were braced against the unstoppable advance of sleep. In the dull light he looked as faded as the wallpaper. Far from his usual powerful, assumptive stance. Even the mighty had to have their quiet moments. Then again, Harold would have been more annoyed with him if he was at his best right now.

“Can’t be alone tonight.” He said, a flicker, a mutter, so soft on his breath. Harold did not know that he had heard it at all. 

“Your man setting off on one of his voyages again?” Harold asked, and realised with great dismay that it sounded as unkind coming out of his mouth as he had meant it in his head.

“No knowing.” Kurt responded gruffly, running a hand through his hair, which was longer than Harold had ever seen it, fluffy and rather uncoiffed since it had grown out from his normal buzzcut. He looked rough, actually. Quite rough. Harold was used to him turning up dishevelled- it was an open secret that he liked to be mussed up on the regular. But this was not like that. His startling eyes were sunken, bruisy, and he could barely keep them open. Harold felt himself teetering on the edge of a horrible realisation.

“You haven’t been with him? These last months?” He could barely bring himself to ask. 

“No.” 

Jem bustled in, carrying the tea tray. He put it down on the coffee table and looked at them both. Harold looked back. 

“Oh you both look far too tired for tea.” Jem said decisively. He was right, of course but Harold would have at least a little, and picked up his cup regardless. 

“Danke, Jem.” Said Kurt, and winced. He too sat up and reached for his teacup, hunching over it with the delicate piece of china almost entirely enveloped in his meaty palm.

“You’re very welcome.” Jem’s tone had a touching note of softness in it, as he looked over them both. He and Harold exchanged a glance. “It’s good to see you again. Even at this hour.”

“You too.” Kurt responded curtly. It did not seem unfriendly. “I hope you don’t mind if I occupy your sofa tonight.”

“Well if it’s all the same to you,” Harold interjected before Jem could answer for him, as he was wont to do. “It’s not a great settee to sleep on. I’d feel far better if you’d share my bed. Or take it, if that’s too much.”

Jem shot Harold an impassioned look of warning. Sometimes Harold wondered how appropriate it was to be mothered by a man some ten years your junior, but he supposed also that that was nobody’s business but his own.

Kurt allowed him a genuine, tired smile, and sipped at his tea. Harold wouldn't be surprised if he had simply been waiting to be asked. 

“I wouldn’t turn you out of your bed.” He nodded. “But since you don’t mind…” 

“Not in the slightest.” Harold assured him. 

To be honest, now that the situation had arisen, he’d be more than happy. Call him desperate if you would. He missed having someone else lie there next to him (notwithstanding the occasional clandestine night visit when Jem was fretting about his health). He wouldn’t go on about it, but he really did think about it a lot. Maybe too much. Who could say. 

He drank about a half of his tea, before placing the cup back on its little saucer. Kurt was still cradling his. They were both far too bleary to think up any conversation. 

“Alright now.” Ordered Jem. “Bed for you two then. You’ll fall asleep right where you are if you don’t make it sharpish.” He rose abruptly, hurrying them from the parlour, his patience clearly at its end. 

Harold walked along at his leisure, Kurt making the slow procession before him, still cradling his cup of tea. He pushed the door to Harold’s room open. He kept it very old fashioned, and amongst many he might have felt the need to defend his design choices. Luckily Kurt was similarly backward in his tastes, and to the best of Harold’s knowledge his own house hadn’t been redecorated since the previous owner, an eccentric and wrothful little widow called Mrs Mollroy had passed away. It was one of the reasons Harold liked him so much. He opened the wardrobe, and pulled out a nightshirt that ought to fit Kurt. He placed it down beside Kurt, who had sat down on one side of the bed, leaning against the post. 

“About tonight…” Kurt started slowly, placing his teacup down on the bedside table and unfolding the nightshirt. It was blue with white trim and had been his favourite for several years. The fit would not be exact, but it was clean and oh so comfortable. 

“It’s no problem.” Harold waved him off, yawning. “We can talk about it all in the morning.”

He clambered into bed, cozy under his sheet and blankets, propping his stick up in its customary position by his nightstand. Removing his glasses, he turned over, leaving Kurt to change in relative privacy. He didn’t think that Kurt minded being seen naked- he certainly hadn’t before, but he’d offer him the courtesy just the same. 

He waited until he felt the bed creak and shift under a new weight to turn out the light. Presently the feeling of Kurt’s back, pressed easily against his, made itself known. Soon enough Harold felt consciousness slip by him. Then, he felt nothing at all.

When he awoke he found himself curled around his friend, having turned over in his sleep, his left arm meandering around Kurt’s shoulders, the other one resting upon his soft belly. He blinked an eye open to gaze around at the room, so protected by the blackout curtains that he could not discern what hour it might have been. Was this inappropriate? Had he violated the bounds of their sacred platonic friendship? Oh now he oughtn’t be so perverse, it would be fine. He countenanced the idea of letting go, but found that really he didn’t want to. And Kurt showed no sign of stirring, his breaths deep and steady, pleasingly rhythmic in conjunction with the grandfather clock. So Harold would content himself to doze, and wait for Kurt’s awakening. It could not be so very lazy if it were for a friend’s benefit, after all.

It was sometime after either eleven or twelve (Harold had counted a number of bings and bongs but he wasn't aways sure how many) that Kurt finally opened his eyes, blinking in the darkened room. 

“...Harold.” He said, blearily. “You’re being very cuddly.” 

“Oh. Gosh, so I am.” Harold said, trying to give the impression that he had not noticed. “Sorry.” He began to uncurl himself from around Kurt.

“Wasn’t a complaint.” Kurt said, contrarily, placing a hand on one of Harold’s own, preventing its imminent escape. “You surprised me. I don’t remember you ever being particularly huggy.” 

“I-” Harold struggled to find himself an excuse from Kurt’s ruthless perceptiveness. “It’s been a lonely year.” He admitted, failing miserably.

“Save me. You’re still in your little rut then?” Kurt said obtusely. A hot little wave of shame and embarrassment flushed through Harold in response.

“Don’t call it a rut.” He insisted.

“It is a rut, Harold. Look at you, you look awful.”

“You’re not even looking at me right now!” Harold protested, withdrawing his arms from around Kurt’s body and sitting up.

“I saw you last night. Fuck, you look old.” Kurt continued unabashed. Harold was wondering why it was he had ever missed the man in the first place. 

“I am old.” He swung stubbornly out of bed, throwing aside the thick curtain to let some light into the room. He opened his little rounded window to let some much needed air into the room. It even smelled of Kurt. 

Kurt snorted. “No you aren’t. You’re handsome, you’re in your prime. Don’t be coy, you know it’s true. But you live like a monk! You act like your life is over already and if you don’t stop it, it really will be. So the sooner you get over it, buy yourself a new suit, have your hair cut and just get laid the better.” 

Harold peered out of his window, unwilling to look back at Kurt. It all felt very ungracious for a guest. And besides, he was old now. Only three weeks ago, he had turned forty-six. 

“Is that how this works?” He retorted, somewhat acidly. “You just swan out of my life with no warning, for months at a time and then return to berate me for not living in the manner you would prescribe? Where the hell have you been?” 

There was a slight pause, and Harold turned back, eyes flashing vindictively. Then he almost fell and had to prop himself up against the windowsill. Yet none of it seemed to make any difference to Kurt, who merely sat in bed, gazing at him with a far expression. 

“Don’t do this, Harold.” Kurt said. “I don’t want us to have this conversation.”

The nerve of it! Harold could take a lot but he wouldn’t be condescended to in his own home. 

“No, damn you, you don’t get to decide that! Tell me!” 

Kurt opened his mouth and closed it again, biting his lip. A level of considered consternation that honestly was normally beyond him. He rarely, Harold would say, thought before he spoke so this was damnably frustrating.

“Well?” Harold demanded.

“Alright. It matters to you, clearly.” Kurt let out a sharp exhale of air. “I just got out of internment. Isle of Man, potentially hazardous enemy aliens.”

Harold fell very quiet.

“No, you… That’s not right. Surely they wouldn’t take you.” He could not believe it. “But I vouched for you, they said you weren’t category A. I- don’t understand?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Oh I believe you alright, but I don’t understand! You’ve lived here for more than a decade! You’re the furthest thing anyone could find to a Nazi sympathiser, it’s inconcievable!” 

“Even so.” Kurt shrugged, reaching over to his nightstand and helping himself to a gulp of what must now be very stale water. “They changed their minds when an invasion started to seem imminent, for most of us between here and the south coast. I’m a security risk. Albeit one they’re willing to let out while the threat abates. For how long I don’t know.”

“Oh,  _ Kurt,”  _ Harold breathed and he could not help but feel his voice hike. “Well don’t I feel like a silly ass now. I never even thought…” The words felt dry in his mouth. “However can I make it up to you?”

“Don’t be a fool. I’m not angry with you. Come back here.” He beckoned insistently. And well, Harold couldn’t simply refuse.

He sat back down atop the covers. Kurt emerged from the sheets himself, moving over so that his arm could trail down the small of Harold’s back, using the other to hold Harold’s head in his hand, unbrushed hair slipping through his fingertips. He brought Harold’s face closer, and it should not have surprised Harold when he pressed his lips against Harold’s own, but it did, and a gasp of air left him inadvertently. It came as a surprise- but maybe it shouldn’t have. As if Harold ever knew what was on the cards when Kurt was around.

Kurt was an exceptional kisser, as you would expect as he always seemed like the sort of person who kissed very well indeed. Harold knew this already of course but it was a different thing to experience it. It felt very different to a memory. It was so real, so physical, and so good despite the grogginess and the morning breath, and it went without saying that he was kissing back, very eagerly. In one, well controlled movement, Kurt lowered Harold down onto the bed, on top of him, sliding a knee up in between Harold’s thighs. He used the hand he had freed up to undo the buttons on Harold’s pyjama top. Even this much stimulation to his criminally underused body elicited noises from him that on another occasion he should have been embarrassed to give so easily. He wondered why on earth he hadn’t accepted Kurt’s offers before. Gods above, he had needed this.

Then Kurt’s lips parted from his, leaving him panting. Harold felt those devilish dark eyes watching him with amusement.

“I don’t remember you being so loud.”

Harold felt his lip curl. Kurt could never let anything just be. 

“Give me a break, you know it’s been a long time.” He gave Kurt a wry look, using the moment to properly begin feeling his friend up in turn, sliding his hands up underneath Kurt’s nightshirt. Even given what Harold was sure must have been a very harsh few months indeed, he was still pleasingly soft to the touch, and Harold moved his hand up, giving the flesh of Kurt’s thigh a very necessary squeeze before roving his chest, the other hand contented to stroke Kurt’s already half-hard cock. 

Kurt growled appreciatively, the sound velvety in his throat. 

“Mmmmmmm.” He leant in to the side, trailing a series of kisses along Harold’s neck, alternating them with sharp nips from his teeth that made Harold gasp. “You know, it’s been a long time for me too. Almost six months.”

Harold snorted. “However can you bear it?”

“Going without is fine for you, you enjoy denying yourself. But I do not. In fact, I can’t remember going this long… since I started, I think.”

In other circumstances, Harold would have risen to that, but with the year they’d had, it was not quite right to him. It did him good to be polite sometimes, even (and perhaps especially) to the man whose chest he was currently pawing at. 

“I’m sure it must be almost unbearable.” Harold teased him gently, feeling the answer buck needily against his hand. 

Kurt’s breath came jaggedly, but a rakish grin came to his face, unable to stop itself. “You’re the expert.” 

\-- - --

Some time later, Harold found the need pressing upon him to emerge from his bedroom and put things in motion for a breakfast to be made. Kurt had made a request for the greasiest breakfast that could possibly be mustered, and really Harold couldn’t refuse him that. Jem felt he might have to on account of their meagre quantity of paper-thin bacon strips, but Harold had insisted. They could change their plans for friday’s breakfast. Kurt came first. Indeed, it was gratifying to watch him wolf down as much toast and egg and bacon as he could fit in his mouth at a time, even with Jem giving reproachful looks to Harold from beside him. Poor Jem would get no leftovers today. But at least it would do him no lasting harm. Harold desperately wanted to ask how well they had fed him, in the camp, how well he had been treated, almost as much as he feared to know. 

Kurt looked up, scouring the table for anything that had been left behind, but to no avail, and Jem was already up, taking their plates away. That was a handy hint, to get out of his way. Jem was more domineering a valet than most men would have liked, but it was common knowledge that Harold was in no place to criticise him any more than he was to judge the way in which the Earth rotated. So they made for Harold's sitting room, and as soon as he sat down, he found Kurt to be leaning against him, practically in his lap. 

"I don't remember you being so cuddly." Harold teased pointedly, and elected to run his hand through Kurt's hair. Though It had gone uncut for what looked like a while it was still short by Harold's standards, but longer, darker, less singular. Harold didn't really know what he thought of it. It made him look less ferocious, for sure but now he wasn't entirely sure that was a good thing. 

"Soppy I know. I missed you."

"God save us, you're going soft." Harold smiled gently to himself, the only one who could see it, though it was meant for them both. 

"So what if I am." Kurt sat up, shrinking back from Harold's grasp. “I don’t suppose my Ellis has called on you has he? Since I’ve been away?”

Kurt's cuddly phase was over, it seemed. It certainly was for Harold, if boyfriends were being brought up, of all things. Harold returned himself to a more structured, sensible sort of Harold and took up a look of thoughtfulness and mild antipathy. 

"No, I'm afraid not. Should he have?" He responded mildly, in a tone he had designed for using to talk about people he held a healthy aversion to.

"Well, he knows you. He's been to the book club before." Kurt responded, giving Harold a look that he would pretend not to understand. 

"Eight years ago, Kurt. Not since. Besides, wouldn't I have known where you were if we'd talked recently?"

Kurt sagged a little. "Not necessarily."

This piqued Harold's interest. He knew it wasn't kind of him to wish that the two of them would break up. He didn't want Kurt to be unhappy, in fact he very much hoped for the opposite. He just wanted better for him. And Kurt had a strong heart. He could weather it. 

"You're not talking?" He asked, and tried his best not to look eager. 

"Not directly." Kurt admitted, a baleful look on his face. Then, for good measure he jabbed Harold in the ribs rather hard, causing him to yelp and respond with a look of betrayal.

"Ow!" He said loudly, so as to make his point. "What was that for?!" 

"How can you look so smug? You utter bastard." 

"No, it wasn't like that." Harold lied. "You surprised me, that was all." 

Kurt gave him another, desperately chilly, look. 

"Alright. I'm sorry Kurt, I'm sorry. I don't think he's good for you, you know that. I don't want you to end up with someone who makes you miserable."

"I won't." Kurt said. "And don't you think it's my business to make sure of that? It's certainly not yours." 

Harold nodded. "Of course. No more disapproving looks from me, I promise. Earnestly now, how are things between you and him?"

"They were good when I saw him last. Brilliant, even. They always are when he's around." 

Harold ran a hand over Kurt's shoulder, fondly. He had that sober look to him again.

"He had to leave again, about a week before they came to collect me." Kurt started again, and sighed. "And of course I couldn't just send him a letter or something, not from where I was. Even if I could, it would be bad for him to be receiving letters from- well, me. For so many reasons. So we haven't been in contact. I've talked to Katrina and Katherine though-"

"His sisters in law?"

"Yes, his sisters in law,"

"Do they know about the two of you?"

"If I'm honest I'm not sure. I've never told them so. Sometimes I think they've guessed and sometimes they just seem so oblivious. But, they said they'd relay a message for me."

"And you haven't heard anything back." Harold concluded aloud.

Kurt looked away, and nodded.

"Oh, Kurt." Harold rubbed his back, trying anything he could think of to be comforting. "There's a lot of ocean out there. But I'm sure he's fine, and thinking about you too." 

"I- hope so." He said, with what sounded like a sniffle. "It's just me, honestly, being paranoid. Long distance just doesn't suit me, that's why I tried so hard to make him stay still the first time we were together. I just want him here. I only ever want that. But I can't have it, it's not who he is. So, I just..." 

Harold watched the tears drip onto Kurt’s shoulders. 

He couldn't stand seeing Kurt like this. More even than hating it, it disturbed him. When they had first met Kurt had still been a teenager, or just barely into his twenties. He had been foolish and vain and took offence at stupid things and yet. There was something to him, more than there was any right to be. An unassailable spirit and confidence, complete in self-knowledge, that by all rights should have taken decades to acquire. He was unshakeable, he took blows with the same glint in his eye that he used to charm other men. Harold was sure this year had been unspeakably hard on Kurt, but nothing ever seemed to warrant him looking so uncertain. It shook Harold, to see him cry, in a way it really shouldn't. Like a small child seeing its parent in a position of vulnerability they weren't meant to understand til they too had reached adulthood. It wasn't fair on Kurt at all, who should be allowed to drop his barriers in front of his closest friend. 

He handed Kurt a handkerchief from his pocket, an action that yielded an actual sob from the man, and Harold recoiled in abject surprise. 

"Let me get you a drink or something. Anything you want. Please." He yammered uselessly, glancing desperately around himself. 

"I'd like some water." Kurt glanced up at him, giving him a watery smile. 

"Of course." Harold said, unfolding a blanket that was sat on his armchair and wrapping it around Kurt's shoulders. "I'll just be a sec." 

He darted away toward the kitchen, where Jem was just washing his hands, the kitchen miraculously spotless around him. Harold grabbed a glass, and reaching over him, filled it up from the tap. 

He offered it to Jem.

"Would you take this through to Kurt?” He gave Jem a pleading look, an action borne only of desperation. “He's in such a state, I hardly know what to say… do you think tea would help settle him?"

Jem nodded, ever the pillar of Harold’s life.

"It ought to. If you would, put on a cup for me too, please." 

Jem took the glass from him, eschewing the classic drinks tray. It didn't fit an informal moment like this one. He crossed over into the living room, leaving the door just ajar. Enough, Harold found as Jem offered Kurt some words of consolation, that he could hear their conversation rather well. 

“I heard about the Andora Star…" Jem started. "I’m so sorry. What a bloody fucking tragedy. You didn’t lose anybody on it, did you?”

“No.” He could just catch Kurt say, over the whistling of the kettle. “None of my family left Germany.”

Harold felt a bit sick. He was glad that he hadn't been the one to ask it. Somehow that felt just as terrible a thing to know as them having passed away. Somehow, it made him glad that he had no close familial connections. He was sure that something like this would have ripped him in two. 

"It's okay, Jem." Said Kurt. "I don't need you to say anything."

"Alright then." Jem replied. Harold didn't think he could have come up with a better response, either.

"Let's talk about something different. How's the old bastard been, since I left? Taking dreadful care of himself as usual?" 

"Oh, he muddles through," 

Harold set about preparing the teacups. Though he was a little curious about this 'old bastard' they were talking about. 

"His health is good enough, but I think he's a bit sad at the moment. I can understand it, what with the bloody bombs falling, and everybody busy for war. It leaves him lonely." 

"It's a pity. What about book club though?"

Oh good lord. They were talking about him. 

“Numbers have dwindled since you left. 'Fraid there’s scarce a book club to come back to.” 

"Surely not!" Kurt practically snorted with indignation. "Don't exaggerate. What about Ronnie?"

"They're not talking again, and that nephew of his was evacuated. No reason for them to make up now."

"Mein Gott. Again?"

"Again." Jem replied, and if Harold knew Jem (which he did, by the way, exceedingly well) that particular line was delivered with a rolled eye. He rather thought he ought to get back in before they’d properly assassinated his character. Hurriedly, Harold poured out the cups of tea, picking up all three of them with some difficulty, slopping a bit of one on the floor. Luckily it was his own. 

"And the other regulars?"

"All sporadic, to my knowledge. The War's really messed people around, even Davey-"

Harold made a clumsy entry into the room and offloaded the teas onto the side table rather hastily.

“Davey," He said pointedly, "Has gone into a piddly little ack ack brigade south of the river. Of course, he was never too keen on reading part, which is all there really is these days. Turns up once in a while but no more.”

Both Jem's and Kurt's eyes fixed upon him as he spoke, handing each of them their own teacups before settling into his armchair. 

"No skin off your back." Jem asserted, granting Harold an approving nod. It meant more to him than it ought to. 

"No indeed, the little shit." Kurt agreed. "I don’t suppose Robert's turned up then? Or Theo for that matter?”

Harold shrugged sadly. “So far as I ever found out, Theo simply vanished when he stopped coming to meetings.” 

“And Robert?”

Now there was someone Harold hadn't thought of for a long time. “It’s a slim shot to hope he’s still about, don’t you think? I’d like to, for sure but infinitely more likely that some Spaniard finished him off years ago. Poor bastard.”

“Mmm.” Agreed Kurt. “Dead or rotting in Spanish prison." 

“You know, I might have seen Theo.” Jem mentioned, as matter-of-factly as anything over his tea.

“What?” Harold exclaimed, just as Kurt sat upright in his seat, the same phrase a ghost in his mouth.

“I’m not sure. It was dark and I might have been mistaken, it’s been a long time and I didn’t know him so long. He was sat on the front step of the bookshop one night while I was patrolling.”

“Well?" Kurt demanded. "Didn’t you say anything to him?”

“No, he was there with some young chap, I didn’t want to interrupt. Besides, I’m not all that sure it was him after all. The coincidence was just big enough to make me think.”

_ "Well." _ Harold managed to say, struck in a daze. “Good on Theo then, eh? I hope it was him.”

“Good on him indeed.” Jem nodded with an air of assurance. “The lad wasn’t half handsome either.”

“That’s better news than I expected.” Kurt admitted, his cynical eyes unable to totally evade an air of wonder. “Fantastic. I don’t suppose we have news of any more absent friends?”

“Oh, well I heard something of Mal Jones not so long ago.” Harold leant forward, eager to share in the news sharing.

“Yes?”

“He’s dead, I’m afraid. But he did have a man tucked away somewhere, all this time. Strangest chap I think I’ve ever met, though I do think he would have suited Mal, actually-”

“I’m stopping you there.” Kurt cut across him, and it was with such solemnity that it stopped Harold dead in his tracks. “From the beginning. Tell me everything I’ve missed.”


End file.
